The Haunting of John Watson
by Vampsi
Summary: Set 3 months after episode 3 of season 2. John has moved into a bedsit outside of London and is deep in the black thickness of his grief and depression over Sherlock's suicide, but strange things are about to begin. Slash, Shwatsonlock.
1. Chapter 1

The Haunting of John Watson

Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing and no one. I am not making any money whatsoever off of this fanfiction.

A/N: This is my first multipart fic in ages. I don't have a good track record with them. I will attempt to update every other week at least.

John Watson really didn't have much of a social life anymore. He no longer went to work, he was just simply unable to do it. He had tried, at first, but...it was just impossible to concentrate and that wasn't fair to the patients or his co-workers who had to pick up his slack. Of course, there was a spot always open for him there, Sarah had made that clear and once in a while inquired as to whether he might return soon. But he just...wasn't ready.

He might feel ashamed of leaving his spot open, but the fact was it was currently occupied by a temporary hire. The temporary was indefinite and that seemed to suit that person just fine. No doubt they felt that the longer John was gone, the more likely it was that eventually Sarah would just hire them on permanently instead. And, to be honest, John didn't much care. It was one of the last things on his list of many to worry about.

Then again, most of the list was unimportant to him at the moment. He'd moved out of 221b, away from Baker Street completely in fact, and rented a bedsit outside of London, using his modest pension. If it weren't for groceries, or the occasional pint with Lestrade at a pub, he'd probably never leave the bedsit.

He kept it tidy only because it was a compulsion after so many years in the military. But, in truth that was done on automatic rather than something he really had to think about. Nothing really seemed to matter much anymore to him. He did occasionally go to his therapist. His limp was back at this point again, and he knew he had demons to work out.

In addition to the return of his limp, the nightmares had returned with a new viciousness that he hadn't known was possible. And this time they all featured Sherlock in some way. He even invaded John's nightmares of Afghanistan. They were far more violent than anything he'd experienced before. Not only did he thrash during the night and wake up in tears, but he had on more than one occasion begun to sleepwalk and he'd fallen out of bed on some occasions as well. He'd wake up with bruises or small cuts and have no idea where they came from.

So, he avoided sleeping as much as possible. Not that it did a lot of good, either. There wasn't much to do except mindlessly surf the Internet or watch crap telly. Or stare at the ceiling. He did that a lot. The walls, too.

His therapist had suggested that he start to take anti-depressants, even gave him a prescription, but he refused to take them. He didn't want them, whether he needed them or not and quite frankly he didn't care either way. There was no way he thought it would be possible for him to feel better and part of him didn't even want to feel better. What right did he have to feel better? Sherlock was gone? Committed suicide. He wouldn't have believed that Sherlock would do that except...he'd seen it, he'd watched. The man had fallen several stories off of Bart's and then landed on his head.

He'd seen the blood, the vacant look in his best friend's eyes as they stared unseeingly, unblinkingly at the grey sky that day. All that blood marring his face...his beautiful, pale face. He'd even gotten through for a moment, before that damn crowd had pushed him away. He'd touched Sherlock's hand, still warm, the wrist. He hadn't been able to get a good read on whether or not Sherlock had had a pulse at that moment, but he hadn't felt anything for the brief half-second he'd been able to touch him. Not that it mattered in the long run.

At the moment John was sitting in a chair, staring up at the ceiling. He was at his desk, having been attempting to write his most personal thoughts in a regular, old-fashioned journal. He didn't trust these specific, most precious, thoughts of his best friend to be stored on a computer where anyone and everyone might have hacking access to them or he might make a mistake and publish something he didn't mean to publish.

The ceiling was painted red with his thoughts. A movie playing out over it as if on a screen. Sherlock jumping from that rooftop, but oddly enough the things he'd said just moments before on the phone were what played through John's mind at the moment, played in his ears as if speakers were somewhere in the room.

Out of everyone Sherlock could have called, he'd called John. Out of everyone Sherlock might have wanted to speak to, he'd chosen John. He had wanted John to hear what he had to say, to hear his voice one last time, to hear the confession that John still didn't understand because it was all just a pack of lies. To look at him one last time, to see him fall.

Of course, it was just coincidence that John had come back to Bart's at that moment, but...he had still insisted John stand there and watch. He hadn't let John go up, despite John having tried to persuade him otherwise. It wasn't as if, even with the lift, John would've gotten to the roof before Sherlock would've been able to jump. No, Sherlock had wanted someone to see, someone who knew him and cared for him. He'd wanted John to see.

And so John had watched. In disbelief and horror. And John continued to watch. Every day in his mind, the walls and the ceiling and his own eyelids as the screen it all played out on. Every time he stared blankly at a flat surface, or shut his eyes to sleep. He watched, over and over. He remembered. He heard.

And sometimes, because he knew he was alone and nobody would have any reason to bug his bedsit now, he would softly cry. And beg for reality to suspend itself, just one more time. Just one more time for Sherlock. To perform one last miracle. For Sherlock to be alive. To walk up to his doorstep, to knock and to tell him it was all a ruse.

If that were to happen, John didn't think there would be a happier man in the universe, even as vast as it was. And he didn't think he'd be able to stop himself from kissing the world's only consulting detective.

But, reality didn't suspend itself so easily. Things didn't work that way in the real world. When people died in the real world, they stayed dead. John knew. He'd seen it many times. Perhaps this last time was finally enough to break whatever was left of John inside to care about the world anymore. Everything seemed empty and hollow and dull and muted without Sherlock.

He reached up when he felt a tear slip from his upturned face back toward his ear, wiped it away, before sitting up properly again and picking up his pen once more so that he could finish the entry he'd started in the journal.


	2. Chapter 2

The Haunting of John Watson

Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing and am making no money off of this.

Sherlock,

I know that you would probably think my grieving is excessive. Maybe it is. You never were much for sentiment. So, I know that you wouldn't want me to be this upset for this long. Especially since there's no apparent end to these horrible thoughts and feelings in sight.

But, I can't help it. I just can't. I never thought...the idea that one of us might die was never too far from my mind, but I think that despite having been in Afghanistan I still somehow thought home was safer. That while we might die, it was a very unlikely possibility and not one to spend much time worrying on.

That day, though, I failed you. I should have known that call was a fake. I should have realized by your attitude that you knew it was a fake. But, I was too stupid to realize it. Maybe if I had then I would have been there to help you when you needed it. I was always there before. This time, I failed. You died because I wasn't there to stop whatever it was that made you feel as though you had to commit suicide.

I don't believe those lies you told me for a moment. I never will. And anyone who does is an idiot. You were my best mate...I didn't know you for an awful long time, but I knew you long enough to know that you were not a fake. I've tried to figure out why you would tell such horrible lies and then direct me to tell everyone else. Why you would commit suicide that way. Or at all.

I can't. I can't figure it out. I'm not as clever as you...but that wouldn't be a surprise to you or anyone else. I thought maybe you were trying to tell me something, that I needed to read between the lines, but there was nothing. At least nothing I could figure out.

I'm angry that you couldn't tell me the truth in the end, tell me what was going on. But, more than that I feel empty. You carved out a place for yourself in my heart and now that you're gone there's just a gaping void there. Perhaps I should have told you all of this before you...

Well, that's it isn't it? Should have, could have, would have. All of these things are nonsense. The opportunity for those things has passed. And, I know I should accept it. I know I should move on, or at least begin to try to move on. But, I just...can't. Instead, I spend my days and nights replaying everything in my head, whether I want to or not. Like a movie reel that won't quit.

And staring at my gun...

John returned home a bit late that evening. He hadn't wanted to go out, initially, but Lestrade had invited him to the pub. Everyone was always saying John needed to get out more, to move on, but he always found ways around it. Lestrade had figured out that one sure way of getting John out and about was to offer to meet him at a pub and have a few pints. Not the best solution, since John never left without being at least thoroughly pissed, but at least it got him out.

Tonight, he was only semi-thoroughly pissed. He could walk a mostly straight line without assistance and he could speak without slurring his words. Because of where he now lived, Lestrade would insist upon seeing him home safe. It wasn't just a matter of walking down a few blocks from the nearby London pub anymore.

He sat down at the desk and looked around somewhat bleary-eyed. Was it just him or had some things been moved around since he'd been gone? He could have sworn that those two pictures on his night stand were flipped around when he'd left. And why was his duvet pulled away from the bed as if someone was about to get in it? He never left it that way.

The doctor shook his head. He was just drunk. These things either weren't the way he was seeing them or they were that way because he had left them that way and had forgotten about it. He sighed and opened the drawer in his desk where he kept his small laptop, his small journal, and his gun. He took out the laptop so that he could get at the journal and then frowned. Where was his gun?

The realization that it was not where he usually kept it was alarming and it sobered him up a bit more. He immediately looked all through that drawer, thinking perhaps it had gotten buried. But, it wasn't there. Looking through the rest of the drawers in the desk proved it was absent completely.

Someone hadn't broken in while he was away, had they? No...that made no sense. While things appeared to be moved about, that could easily be explained and so far while he was looking nothing else seemed to be actually missing. Just his gun...

Perhaps he'd misplaced it. He did take it out pretty often. He cleaned it regularly and he also just took it out to look at it...when he was contemplating using it. But, he always returned it to the very same spot. It was habit, it was the way he knew where his gun was at all times should he ever need it.

Despite this, he got up to search the rest of the bedsit, more or less tearing it apart. This was important. And he wasn't even supposed to have it so it wasn't as if he could just report it stolen. Lestrade might be understanding, but while Lestrade stretched and bent the laws to accommodate Sherlock and John quite often he never truly broke them. He wouldn't be able to hide any reports about the missing firearm from his superiors. Especially since he was already in the hot seat over the whole fiasco with Sherlock.

Dammit! John threw a drawer from his nightstand across the room, finding the thud it made both satisfying and irritating at the same time.

No, his firearm was not stolen. It just...it wasn't. Who would break in and steal his firearm but nothing else? Nonsense. He'd just...misplaced it. It was uncharacteristic of him, yes, but not impossible. He'd find it again sometime. He'd look tomorrow or the next day when he was neither drunk nor hungover.

For now, he went about setting the entire bedsit to rights.


	3. Chapter 3

The Haunting of John Watson

Chapter 3

by: Vampira

Disclaimer: I do not own.

John felt as though he were being watched. It roused him, just the slightest bit, from his sleep. But, he couldn't bring himself to care that much. It was a habit leftover from his Army days, which really weren't that far gone. Why should he care, though? If someone was in his bedsit, if someone was going to murder him in his sleep, let them. It would be nice, in fact. A relief.

He shut his eyes again, and relaxed. When nothing happened, he supposed he'd been imagining it. Wishful thinking, perhaps. Or paranoia in his sleep. Who knew? He still felt that feeling, but he heard nothing. There was no movement, not of a person or of things in the room. Had someone come in just to watch him sleep? Strange, but fine. Let them do that. Maybe their obsession would lead to murder eventually.

It should alarm him, he supposed, that he would welcome a murderer into his home like that. That he would not even think of defending himself. Did he want to die that badly? Did he want to join Sherlock that much? Apparently, he did. That was why he no longer locked his door, wasn't it? At least not while he was at home.

After a while, despite the unnerving feeling of eyes upon him in the darkness, he managed to fall into a very light doze. It was disrupted, however, when he felt the bed dip behind him, a clothed figure press up to him very subtly, and an arm slide around his waist. There was no tightening of it, it just lay there.

John thought of perhaps turning around and confronting this person, whom he was sure was male. Either it would get him some answers or get him killed, both were preferable. But, he didn't. He...he sort of liked it, morbid as it was to say. This man was about Sherlock's height and body weight. He'd hauled the man into bed once against his will, he ought to know what Sherlock felt like and what he weighed.

Maybe it was Sherlock, even. John could easily be dreaming. Dreaming that you were awake in your bedroom while you were really asleep was rather common, after all. Why not? It would be the first nice dream he'd had since Sherlock's suicide.

His body stayed relaxed and he allowed himself to drift off a bit more. Soft, warm breath against his neck was comforting, and the smell of Sherlock seemed to surround him. Those clothes the stranger was wearing included a coat that he was fairly sure, from the feel of it, was probably similar to the one Sherlock always wore. The one he'd...he'd died in.

John gave a soft sob in his sleep, and the arm around him tightened just a fraction of an inch, and the soft breath against his neck changed to make the quietest shushing sound he'd ever heard. A sound to quiet a nightmare without waking the one having the dream.

John woke up the next morning, feeling surprisingly rested. He didn't remember having any nightmares. Just the one dream, the one of the man...probably his subconscious supplying Sherlock for him...laying with him and comforting him in his sleep. Lord knew he'd needed something like that. There was no one, especially not the one person he'd want, to do that for him. So his subconscious, seeing his need, had supplied this Dream Sherlock for him to comfort him. To allow him to get some rest before he truly did go insane.

But, he woke up alone. The sheet was indented behind him, but he could have easily done that himself. In fact, he probably had while traveling around during the night. He tended to be the sort of person who couldn't stay in one position all night, so it was entirely likely.

He sighed as he got up, getting his cane which he kept near the bed again now, and limping his way toward the kitchen to get something to eat. A piece of fruit probably. He didn't feel like making something, even just toast, and he doubted he'd finish whatever fruit he found in there. He just wasn't very hungry lately.

After that, and some more contemplating over his dream, he had to get ready to meet with his psychiatrist. He didn't really want to, he was sorry he'd started it up again, but he was sure that if he didn't make it out for something other than drinks at least once every few weeks then Mycroft would have Lestrade bothering him even more. Or worse, Molly.

It wasn't that John didn't appreciate the concern from the two, it was just that he really would rather be left alone. Mycroft, he was sure, was feeling guilty for his own part in Sherlock's death and was absolving himself of it by "looking after" John. Not out of any real concern or obligation to John or to Sherlock, but just to make himself feel better. The doctor was certain his little brother was the only person Mycroft Holmes had ever felt anything akin to love or responsibility for other than himself and, maybe, their parents.

But, John didn't have a very high opinion of the British official at the moment. So, perhaps he was being unnecessarily unkind.

No...he didn't think so.

Once he was washed and dressed, and the taxi he called was there to take him - since he now lived outside of London it would be impractical to walk...not to mention he'd be late - he went to open the door and frowned. The knob wouldn't turn.

He tried twice more and even jiggled it and the door and still nothing. Just when he was about to think that his door was jammed somehow - because why should anything ever go right? - he noticed that it was locked. He distinctly remembered not only not locking it last night but remembering that he hadn't locked it last night and deliberately leaving it that way in the hopes of an intruder.

The former Army doctor frowned and turned the lock and opened the door just as he heard the taxi impatiently honk three times in a row.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming!" he said, irritatedly, as he hurried as fast as his limping leg and cane would allow him. He had stopped only to lock the door again on his way out. The fact he still hadn't found his gun unnerved him and he didn't want to leave it to chance again. He wasn't worried for himself, being shot with his own gun - the one he had been able to protect Sherlock with on many occasions except the one which had counted most - seemed poetic justice. But, what if someone stole it and killed someone else with it? He didn't want anyone else's blood on his hands.

John got into the taxi, telling the driver where to go although he had already mentioned it when he'd called. He didn't want to assume this man knew what he was doing and then end up even later than he would have been had he just bloody walked into London.

He would worry about the door locking by itself later. In fact, no. He wouldn't worry about it later. It was ridiculous. Obviously he had thought he'd left it unlocked, but had actually locked it out of habit.


	4. Chapter 4

The Haunting of John Watson

Chapter 4

by: Vampira

Disclaimer: I own nothing and I have no money.

A/N: This is the second to the last chapter. Which means that while this is NOT the last chapter, next week's installment IS the last chapter. Just a head's up!

When John returned home that evening he was confronted with something dangling from the coat peg. A long, dark blue something that he hadn't seen since...since the incident. Something that even now still had bloodstains on it. He'd barely had time to shut the door when he'd seen it, and it rendered him almost breathless, his eyes wide as he leaned heavily against the door.

His breath came heavily once he'd regained it, and he took a moment to swallow before reaching his hand out to touch the garment. Surely it wasn't there...it was a trick of his mind. He only thought it was there.

But, no, his fingers connected with the fabric of it and he recognized the feel of it immediately. It was the same scarf, and the bloodstains were real, marring the feel and the look of the fabric with what they'd been. He gently rubbed the fabric at an area without a blood stain, his mind filled with images of Sherlock. Giving him looks that said he obviously thought John could deduce something if he'd only try harder. Smiling while play-acting to someone. Smiling genuinely to John while they giggled at inappropriate times or places, or that contemplative look on his face as they walked down the street and he was mulling something over from a crime scene.

A loud, heartbreaking sound, almost a keening noise, filled the room and it took John a moment to realize it had come from him. The realization had come when he felt wetness against his cheeks. He moved his free hand to wipe away the tears, surprised at them and at himself. But, who would do this?

He knew he didn't have Sherlock's scarf, he had none of Sherlock's clothing from that...that! He'd not been offered any and he'd not asked for it. He'd been unable to stay at the flat, it had been too painful, and he'd been unable to take anything of Sherlock's with him.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He'd taken some things. A shirt he'd particularly liked on Sherlock. But, it wasn't as if anyone would notice. And he didn't display it, he just...he just kept it where he could see it or touch it when he needed it. Sometimes it was important that he...have something like that with him.

But, John knew that this scarf wasn't something he'd brought with him! Not by accident and certainly not without noticing. He'd have noticed, he knew he would have. He let go of it and backed away from it. When he took off his coat he draped it on the couch, not wanting to go anywhere near the scarf again for now.

He tried to go about his evening, but along with that scarf came memories of that day. There was no concentrating on anything without his thoughts eventually wandering back to the scarf. How had it gotten there? Obviously, someone had put it there. It proved someone was breaking into his bedsit, but who? And why? Just to torment him? Did someone hate him so much? Who could possibly hate him that much, to play such a cruel joke? Or, better, who would want to that would still also have access to Sherlock's clothes from that day?

John had no answers for any of these questions. He knew he should be disturbed and afraid that someone was doing this, the implications that came with these sorts of actions and this sort of dedication to hating and hurting someone. But, he couldn't bring himself to care that much, to worry about his own safety that much.

Wandering into the kitchen, he found that despite his routine he didn't even want tea. He stared at the kettle for a few moments before shaking his head. He just wanted to stop, that's what he wanted. He wanted to stop. Stop everything. Stop thinking, stop remembering, stop breathing, stop living.

His eyes lingered a few moments on the wooden block that held a set of knives. He even reached out to caress the handle of a knife that he knew had a long, slender, very sharp blade. Taking it out, he examined the blade, tested it with his thumb for sharpness. As he'd thought, it was probably the sharpest knife in the block, one he rarely ever used.

Thinking about sliding the knife into his skin, into a vein along his wrist, left him feeling both relieved and frightened. But, more relieved than anything. To make everything stop was just that simple, wasn't it? Without realizing it he had put the blade to his upturned wrist. He only realized he was actually doing that, rather than just imagining it, when he felt the nick and saw the warm swell of blood.

Coincidentally, that was also the moment that his phone rang. He thought about ignoring it. After all, he'd already begun why not just continue? Why not? He was always wishing everything would just stop, this would do it...But, no. He couldn't do that, wouldn't do it. And, anyway, if he didn't answer the phone and it was Lestrade then he might come to check on John. It wasn't too difficult to get here in time if driving were involved and he was sure that the police car showing up would bother the neighbors.

Setting the knife down in the sink, he grabbed a towel to place over his wrist before fishing out his cell phone and answering it.

"Hello?" he asked into the phone, his tone a bit irritated. The number hadn't been Lestrade's, or anyone else's in his list of contacts.

There was no response.

"Is someone there or not?" John asked into the phone, more obviously impatient and irritated now.

There was only very soft breathing on the other end. At least it wasn't an obscene phone call, those usually involved heavy breathing. The cheek of some people, though...

"Listen, if you're-" John was cut off when he realized that the other person had hung up. There was no click, of course, but there was a difference to the quiet that let him know.

"Some people have nothing better to do with their lives than torment others." he mumbled, hitting the red button on his phone to hang his own up as well and putting it back in his pocket. He'd contemplated turning it off completely but he decided against it. If someone did call and his phone was off, they might panic. Apparently, John wasn't very good at pretending to be alright.

He went to change into his usual sleepwear, but before getting into bed he took a moment to go to the closet and take out the shirt he'd taken from the Baker Street flat. He held it to him, burying his face against it and slowly, deeply breathing in the scent. It was almost gone, after being in John's closet and away from 221B. It wasn't surprising, but it was still disappointing. That scent that had always been so uniquely Sherlock.

Maybe he should have taken a jar of Sherlock's cologne or aftershave with him. But, no, he'd told himself just the shirt. Just the shirt because taking the cologne or the aftershave would've been too much, would torture him too much.

It hadn't stopped him from taking Sherlock's shampoo with him, which he kept in the bathroom and often just left open so that it could fill the room. He'd told himself it wasn't quite the same, but he knew it was a lie. A lie he was perfectly willing to allow himself.

John brought the shirt with him to the bed and curled up with it under the duvet, giving a soft sigh. He wouldn't allow himself to cry, he never allowed much crying for himself. It wasn't going to solve anything or bring Sherlock back if he cried. So, what was the point? And right now he had a better reason not to cry, if he did the tears would probably get all over the shirt and make it wet and the scent that was still barely lingering would be gone even faster.

At some point, John fell asleep with the shirt held closely to him despite the fact it had still been fairly early in the evening. But, he woke up again when he heard suspicious noises in the flat. He was sure he'd heard the door open and shut, heard footsteps on the hardwood.

He kept his eyes closed, figuring the same as the night before. Whoever this was, perhaps tonight they'd have the courage to just kill him. Because, John obviously was too much of a coward to do it himself, always thinking up reasons not to.

This time there was no hesitation whatsoever when the figure, tall and silhouetted in the room that was just dark enough to leave John unable to make out any distinguishing features, came up to the bed and lay down with him.

Was he dreaming again? Surely. This was a weird recurring dream. But, the smell of the person, the feel of them...he knew his mind had conjured up Sherlock for him again.

"I'm sorry...I know it was my fault..." he murmured, quietly, sleepily.

There was hesitation in the person behind him, but then the embrace tightened and he felt the Sherlock his unconscious mind had drawn up for him press his lips lightly to John's shoulder. Not in a kiss, not quite, but it was close enough for John.

He relaxed. The break-ins and the dreams were separate, although maybe his mind was connecting them to make him think they were related. To comfort him at night. To keep the nightmares away, because he was obviously beginning to go mad if he was almost slitting his wrist without realizing it.

"Shhh..." a barely-there whisper of breath, a soft soothing caress to his stomach. The hand came in contact with the shirt John still held, but ignored it. The gentle attention was all that John remembered before falling into another, deeper sleep. He did dream this time, but they weren't nightmares.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning John expected to wake up the same way that he always did when he had these dreams of Sherlock visiting him during the night. Alone, the bedsit the sort of quiet that you feel as well as hear, that told you were in fact completely and utterly alone.

But, instead he was woken a bit earlier than usual. He'd slept through the night, despite having gone to bed far sooner than normal, but he knew still knew it was the early hours of the morning. That wasn't quite so important, however, as what had caused him to wake so early.

It had nothing to do with going to bed sooner than usual last night and everything to do with movement on the bed. Movement he had not created, which originated from behind him.

His heart skipped a beat. He had always gone back and forth between thinking these visits were real and imaginary, a murderer or a fake Sherlock conjured by his sleeping mind. But, this was the first time he'd woken up to the sound and the feel of someone getting out of bed.

Woken up. He was sure that at this point he was no longer sleeping. Still, he kept his body pliant as if with sleep and his eyes shut, attempted to keep his breathing as even and relaxed as possible so as not to alert the mystery man to the fact that he was now awake.

The man, whoever he was, made a much quieter exit than he ever did entry. John could hardly hear him leave the room but he stayed completely still until he heard the door to the bedsit open and close, just to be absolutely certain he didn't open his eyes prematurely, that the man was still in the room with him.

Upon hearing the door, he sat up immediately and looked at the windows before the time. It was definitely early, very early, pre-dawn by about half an hour or so.

There was no time to sit and wonder, though. Getting up, he rushed to the window rather than just sit and stare at it, looking out and gasping at what he saw. He could hardly believe it but there he was. The very man he'd thought was dead for so long, the man he was still in the process of grieving, even now.

He was walking away from the building, adjusting his greatcoat a bit, and John could admittedly only see the back of him but he knew that man, would know him anywhere. That was Sherlock. That was his coat, his floppy hair, even his purposeful, brisk and graceful stride.

And the man was solid, this was no figment of his imagination. John knew he wanted it badly enough that he might invent this sort of thing, had even pinched himself to be sure, but the image never changed. It was the sort of solid, realness that you just knew wasn't fake.

"It really is you..." John murmured to himself, tears of relief, anger and confusion slipping down his cheeks. He didn't know why Sherlock wanted him to think he was dead, why he needed everyone else to think he was. And part of him was angry for not confiding in John that it was all a ruse, rather than let him grieve and think he was going insane.

But he was alive...and in the end that was all that really mattered, wasn't it? There would be time enough for explanations later.

End


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